Colonel Prescott lost nearly one quarter of his own regiment in the action. When General Warren came upon the hill, Colonel Prescott asked him if he had any orders to give: he answered, "No, colonel, I am only a volunteer; the command is yours." When he was at length forced to tell his men to retreat as well as they could, he was one of the last who left the intrenchment. He was so well satisfied with the bravery of his companions, and convinced that the enemy were disheartened by the severe and unexpected loss which they had sustained, that he requested the commander in chief to give him two regiments, and he would retake the position the same night.

He continued in the service until the beginning of 1777, when he resigned and returned to his home: but in the autumn of that year, he went as a volunteer to the northern army under general Gates, and assisted in the capture of general Burgoyne. This was his last military service. He was subsequently, for several years, a member of the legislature, and died in 1795, in the seventieth year of his age.

Colonel Prescott was a genuine specimen of an energetic, brave, and patriotic citizen, who was ready in the hour of danger, to place himself in the van, and partake in all the perils of his country; feeling anxious for its prosperity, without caring to share in its emoluments; and maintaining beneath a plain exterior and simple habits, a dignified pride in his native land, and a highminded love of freedom.

The immediate results of this engagement were great and various. Though the Americans were obliged to yield the ground for want of ammunition, yet their defeat was substantially a triumph. The actual loss of the British army was severe, and was deeply felt by themselves and their friends. The charm of their invincibility was broken. The hopes of the whole continent were raised. It was demonstrated, that although they might burn towns, or overwhelm raw troops by superior discipline and numbers, yet the conquest at least would not be an easy one. Those patriots, who, under the most arduous responsibility, at the peril of every thing which men of sense and virtue can value, hazarded in the

support of public principles, present ruin and future disgrace, though they felt this onset to be only the beginning of a civil war, yet were invigorated by its results, which cleared away some painful uncertainties; while the bravery and firmness that had been displayed by their countrymen, inspired a more positive expectation of being ultimately triumphant.

In the life of James Otis, by William Tudor, of Boston, from which work the foregoing is taken, the following note is made relative to the battle. "The anxiety and various emotions of the people of Boston, on this occasion, had a highly dramatic kind of interest. Those who sided with the British troops began to see even in the duration of this battle, the possibility that they had' taken the wrong side, and that they might become exiles from their country. While those whose whole soul was with their countrymen, were in dreadful apprehension for their friends, in a contest, the severity of which was shown by the destruction of so many of their enemies.

"After the battle had continued for some time, a young person living in Boston, possessed of very keen and generous feelings, bordering a little perhaps on the romantic, as was natural to her age, sex, and lively imagination, finding that many of the wounded troops brought over from the field of action were carried by her residence, mixed a quantity of refreshing beverage, and with a female domestic by her side, stood at the door, and offered it to the sufferers as they were borne along, burning with fever, and parched with thirst. Several of them, grateful for the kindness, gave her, as they thought, consolation, by assuring her of the destruction of her countrymen. One young officer said, never mind'it, my young lady, we have peppered 'em well, depend upon it.' Her dearest feelings, deeply interested in the opposite camp, were thus unintentionally lacerated, while she was pouring oil and wine into their wounds.

General Henry Lee, in his Memoirs of the War in the Southern Department, makes the following remark, in relation to Prescott and his gallant band:

"When future generations shall inquire, where are the men who gained the brightest prize of glory in the arduous contest which ushered in our nation's birth? upon

Prescott and his companions in arms, will the eye of history beam. The military annals of the world rarely furnish an achievement which equals the firmness and courage displayed on that proud day by the gallant band of Americans; and it certainly stands first in the brilliant events of the war."

PUTNAM, ISRAEL, a major-general in the army of the United States, was born at Salem, Massachusetts, January 7, 1718. His mind was vigorous, but it was never cultivated by education. When he for the first time went to Boston, he was insulted for his rusticity by a boy of twice his size. After bearing his sarcasms until his good nature was entirely exhausted, he attacked and vanquished the unmannerly fellow, to the great diversion of a crowd of spectators. In running, leaping, and wrestling, he almost always bore away the prize. In 1739, he removed to Pomfret, in Connecticut, where he cultivated a considerable tract of land. He had, however, to encounter many difficulties, and among his troubles, the depredations of wolves on his sheep-fold was not the least. In one night seventy fine sheep and goats were killed. A she wolf, who, with her annual whelps, had for several years infested the vicinity, being considered as the principal cause of the havoc, Mr. Putnam entered into a combination with a number of his neighbours to hunt alternately, till they should destroy her. At length the hounds drove her into her den, and a number of persons soon collected with guns, straw,fire, and sulphur, to attack the common enemy. But the dogs were afraid to approach her, and the fumes of brimstone could not force her from the cavern. It was now ten o'clock at night. Mr. Putnam proposed to his black servant to descend into the cave, and shoot the wolf; but, as the negro declined, he resolved to do it himself. Hav ing divested himself of his coat and waistcoat, and haying a long rope fastened round his legs, by which he might be pulled back at a concerted signal, he entered

the cavern, head foremost, with a blazing torch, made of strips of birch bark, in his hand. He descended fifteen feet, passed along horizontally ten feet, and then began the gradual ascent, which is sixteen feet in length. He slowly proceeded on his hands and knees, in an abode which was silent as the house of death. Cautiously glancing forwards, he discovered the glaring eye-balls of the wolf, who started at the sight of his torch, gnashed her teeth, and gave a sullen growl. He immediately kicked the rope, and was drawn out with a friendly celerity and violence, which not a little bruised him. Loading his gun with nine buck shot, and carrying it in one hand, while he held the torch with the other, he descended a second time. As he approached the wolf, she howled, rolled her eyes, snapped her teeth, dropped her head between her legs, and was evidently on the point of springing at him. At this moment he fired at her head, and soon found himself drawn out of the cave. Having refreshed himself, he again descended, and seizing the wolf by her ears, kicked the rope, and his companions above, with no small exultation, dragged them both out together.

During the French war he was appointed to command a company of the first troops which were raised in Connecticut, in 1755. He rendered much service to the army in the neighbourhood of Crown Point. In 1756, while near Ticonderoga, he was repeatedly in the most imminent danger. He escaped in an adventure of one night with twelve bullet-holes in his blanket. In August he was sent out with several hundred men to watch the motions of the enemy. Being ambuscaded by a party of equal numbers, a general, but irregular action took place. Putnam had discharged his fusee several times, but at length it missed fire while its muzzle was presented to the breast of a savage. The warrior with his lifted hatchet, and a tremendous war-whoop, compelled him to surrender, and then bound him to a tree. In the course of the action the parties changed their position; so as to bring this tree directly between them. The balls flew by him incessantly; many struck the tree, and some passed through his clothes. The enemy now gained possession of the ground, but being afterwards driven from

the field, they carried their prisoners with them. At night he was stripped, and a fire was kindled to roast him alive. For this purpose they led him into a dark forest, stripped him naked, bound him to a tree, and piled dry brush, with other fuel, at a small distance, in a circle round him. They accompanied their labours, as if for his funeral dirge, with screams and sounds, inimitable but by savage voices. They then set the piles on fire. A sudden shower damped the rising flame. Still they strove to kindle it; at last the blaze ran fiercely round the circle. Major Putnam soon began to feel the scorching heat. His hands were so tied that he could move his body. He often shifted sides as the fire approached. This sight, at the very idea of which, all but savages must shudder, afforded the highest diversion to his inhuman tormentors, who demonstrated the delirium of their joy by correspondent yells, dances, and gesticulations. He saw clearly that his final hour was inevitably come. He summoned all his resolution, and composed his mind, so far as the circumstances could admit, to bid an eternal farewell to all he held most dear. To quit the world would scarcely have cost him a single pang; but for the idea of home, but for the remembrance of domestic endearments, of the affectionate partner of his soul, and of their beloved offspring. His thought was ultimately fixed on a happier state of existence, beyond the tortures he was beginning to endure. The bitterness of death, even of that death which is accompanied with the keenest agonies, was, in a manner, past: nature, with a feeble struggle, was quitting its last hold on sublunary things, when a French officer rushed through the crowd, opened a way by scattering the burning brands, and unbound the victim. It was Molang himself, to whom a savage, unwilling to see another human victim immolated, had run and communicated the tidings. That commandant spurned and severely reprimanded the barbarians, whose nocturnal powwas and hellish orgies he suddenly ended. Putnam did not want for feeling or gratitude. The French commander, fearing to trust him alone with them, remained till he could safely deliver him into the hands of his master.

The savage approached his prisoner kindly, and seem